


Precrime Caper

by DenmarkStreetGutterClub



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Minority Report (2002)
Genre: AU, Bad Strike, F/M, Nutsacks, Precogs - Freeform, Smoking, fire escape sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 06:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30118398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenmarkStreetGutterClub/pseuds/DenmarkStreetGutterClub
Summary: Cormoran Strike has secured a job with the Precrime Division under John Anderton. Something is about to go very wrong. Read on ...
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Precrime Caper

Cormoran Strike glanced towards the iris capture device for Eyedent and entered Precrime for his third week on the job. 

He'd completed basic training. His "I <3 Cornwall, NY" mug was installed in the communal kitchen.The curvy receptionist with the red-gold hair knew his name and he, of course, knew hers. 

(He also knew the sapphire and diamond ring on the fourth finger of her left hand was given to her by the Director of Precrime. He'd been there long enough to be verbally warned off Robin Ellacott, who seemed to appreciate a smile and hello from him in the morning, but really, there was no need. He wasn't that stupid.)

He'd even spent a few precious moments in the presence of Agatha, Arthur and Dashiel.

That was probably when the problem started. Even as he leaned over the still, bright pool, an eddy began to disturb the surface. Wally grabbed his shoulders and pulled him away, but as he looked back he could have sworn he saw Agatha give him the eye.

~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~

John Anderton (5'7" in height but in stature, a giant) watched the new recruit from his steel and glass eyrie above Precrime.

Everything about Cormoran Strike (6'3" in his socks) bothered him. His unruly hair, cropped short but still breaking into curls. His strong jaw, perennially sporting a five o'clock shadow at nine-thirty in the morning. His sheer bulk, stretching the seams of his shirt as he folded his arms, so that the stitches pulled at the holes in the fabric, and left them gaping very slightly when his arms were relaxed.

Ordinary men wouldn't notice such tiny details, but John Anderton did. Cormoran Strike didn't know how close he'd come to being crossed off the shortlist for the new post, just by walking into the interview room. 

In the end, he'd charmed the panel with his self-effacing manner and impressed them with his CV (dropping out of Harvard for personal reasons had a certain cachet, and rising within the US Army Criminal Investigation Command despite it was impressive). He'd also asked intelligent questions about Precrime when given the opportunity; it was rare to interview anyone who didn't ask about the morality of locking up people before they'd committed a crime.

Put all of that together with him being decorated for bravery and losing a chunk of leg to an IED, and the panel really had no option but to offer him the job.

But John Anderton recognised a risk to the smooth running of the Precrime division when he saw one, and he was as sure as a precog seeing a premeditated murder that he was looking at one right now.

~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~

"OK, Strike. Let's see what you're made of."

Fletcher was a handsome, blanched figure, smooth-featured, white-haired, dressed in an immaculate black muscle vest and pants. Imposing though he appeared, Strike found him strangely easier to deal with than the Director, who was less impressive to look at but clearly disliked sharing Precrime with anyone (and was surprisingly short - Strike had never liked working with very small people; he disliked having to stoop.)

Taking position in front of the huge curved work screen, Strike surveyed the jumble of images already arriving from the precogs. A bar. A couple sitting at the bar. A couple sitting at the bar drinking ... cocktails? He blew up the image. Yes, Manhattans. A line of taps behind them (Strike saw Doom Bar on a separate beer pump as a guest ale and made a mental note to visit the bar if he could identify where it was). He rescaled the image.

"No ball yet?" Fletcher prompted him.

"No," Strike replied with his hint of Chicagoan vowels. "So we review the images for any clear evidence of murder until the ball arrives, but don't scramble the vehicles yet."

"Very good."

The next flurry of images seemed to show a short journey, by taxi, and the same couple arriving at a hotel. A revolving door. Glass and brass fittings. A logo containing a distinctive capital H ...

"I know that place," said Strike. "Hazlitt's Hotel, Lower East Side."

"Excellent," said Fletcher. "No ball still, so we keep going with the image feed. Put that tranche to one side, and see if we can identify a room number."

Strike pulled up a series of images of a long corridor. He couldn't see any identifying numbers, and the gaudy carpet always melted away to reveal a large bed with white covers. There was a thumbnail that seemed later because it started with the bed, and Strike opened it.

A couple, possibly the same couple, difficult to say, were on the bed, the man lying on his back and the woman astride him, grinding her hips. He was gripping her buttocks hard enough to bruise and her head was thrown back. Her full breasts were bouncing gently and the man seemed mesmerised by them, until he shouted, "Oh fuck!" and came, the woman collapsing onto his chest in ecstasy moments later.

Strike turned to Fletcher, who shrugged. "It happens. Some of the guys call it a perk. Maintain your professionalism, Strike. We're still looking at evidence."

Strike nodded, and turned back to the screen. There were about fifty similar images awaiting his attention.

~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~

"No murder at all?"

John Anderton (5'7", but 18" high when lying on his back and aroused) disliked the implication that something was wrong with the system. If something was wrong, it was the new recruit, mark his words.

"No, Sir. Just endless pictures of the same shag ..." Fletcher (5'11" but respectful enough to stand with his legs akimbo, which took an inch off) reached into his pocket, "... and then this!"

John Anderton could see it was a wooden precog sphere, at least, it was the same wood, but this one looked a bit odd. He took it and turned it over in his hand. It wasn't a sphere really, it was an undulating, irregular shape with a wrinkled surface. The names were difficult to make out, but he could read SARAH SHADLOCK and MATTHEW followed by something that looked like CUNT. There may have been some data missing. He held the ball up to the light.

"What does that look like to you, Fletcher?"

"Ah ... er ..."

"Because, to me, it looks like a nutsack."

~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~

Strike drew the collar of his coat up around his ears and felt in his inside pocket for his treasure. It was getting harder and harder to source them, but his dealer had come up with gold last week, a pack of ten genuine Benson and Hedges filter tips. Strike was rationing himself to one a week.

He should really wait until he was home, but it was only his fifth week in the new job, and he'd had a third bruising encounter with John Anderton, who seemed to blame him personally for the odd obsession the precogs were developing with copulation. It had left him needing a smoke like never before. The fire escape was cold, but it was not overlooked.

He pulled a lighter from the same pocket, selected a cigarette, balanced it between his lips and flicked the trigger to achieve a wavering yellow ghost. Inhaling to draw air through the paper tube, he dipped the tip into the flame. Once lit, he drew a mouthful of smoke and savoured it for a moment before drawing it into his lungs and blowing it out through his nose.

"Mr Strike?"

He looked up to see Robin Ellacott regarding him with curiosity. _Shit._ It wasn't exactly illegal to smoke cigarettes, but workplaces were smoke free and something told him that John Anderton would consider a fire escape as part of the workplace, at least if it allowed him to discipline his new recruit.

"Ms Ellacott! I ... er ... sorry, let me put this out."

"No!" She put her hand on his to stop him pressing the tip of the cigarette into the wall. "I don't mind. One of my brothers lights a cigarette occasionally. I quite like the smell."

Strike nodded. She hadn't taken her hand away. She was really, a very attractive woman. It was a shame she was marrying that twat. He offered the packet to her.

"Do you ... smoke?"

She shook her head and snatched her hand back, tucking it under her arm as if it wasn't to be trusted and might escape.

"No. Neither does my brother. He just lights them and lets them burn. Like joss sticks."

Strike nodded. _What a fucking waste. Of cigarettes and tail._

"I ... um ... I've never seen anyone do that before."

"What? Light up a cigarette?"

"And the other thing. It was ... very sexy."

_Oh lord._

Strike took another deep toke and a step closer to her. He exhaled and the smoke billowed around them both.

"Was there a message? For me?"

Ms Ellacott shook her head. 

"Why were you looking for me, then?"

"I wasn't. I come here sometimes when I want to be ..."

"... alone."

She nodded, and shivered a little.

_Oh lord, forgive your wayward son._

Strike took off his coat and draped it around her shoulders, arranging the collar and folding the lapels over her chest.

"Thanks." She looked startled, but pleased. "Should have brought a cardie!"

Strike hadn't quite let go of the lapels. He should really let go of them, now.

_Oh lord, forgive your wayward son, Cormoran Blue Strike. For he knows exactly what he does. He knows it's stupid. And he's going to do it anyway._

~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~

John Anderton (5'7" but marrying a wonderful woman who prefers flats to heels) was watching the precogs closely by video screen, when there was a knock at the door.

"Come!"

Fletcher (5'11" but sits down without being told) entered, carrying a tablet.

"I have the results, Sir. Thought you'd like to see them straight away."

John Anderton took the tablet and cast his eye over the mass of figures on the screen. He frowned. Then, swiping expertly, he cast the data. Turning his chair, he studied the numbers, which were now laid out across the wall behind his desk.

"Excess of testosterone?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Producing an increase in libido."

"That seems to be the case."

"Even in Agatha."

"Especially in Agatha."

"And do the doctors think ... this explains ..."

"Why they're precoging simultaneous orgasms instead of murders? They do, Sir."

John Anderton pinched the bridge of his nose, where a tension headache was threatening to break out. He knew the answer to the next question, but he was going to ask it anyway.

"What is the source of the testosterone spike, Fletcher?"

Before he could answer, a flashing light on John Anderton's desk distracted them both. 

"Here comes another one, Sir. I can deal with it."

"Where's Strike?"

"Not back from his cigarette break yet, Sir."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, it's just what he calls them. I'm sure there's no smoking involved."

John Anderton stood, and his deputy leapt to his feet, too.

"At ease, Fletcher. I might deal with this one, myself. Just so I don't get rusty."

~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~°~

As John Anderton (5'7" but makes up with enthusiasm what he lacks in length) arrived in position, Fletcher (5'11" and about to wish he could make himself a lot smaller) caught the oddly misshapen precog sphere, and noted the names burnt onto its surface.

ROBIN ELLACOTT  
CORMORAN STRIKE


End file.
